


Stranger Danger

by veinsofink



Series: Ay, Mi Amor: Imector One Shots and AUs [1]
Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Fluff, Fluff without Plot, Imector, Mild Language, Modern AU, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-17
Updated: 2019-10-17
Packaged: 2020-12-22 09:47:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21074210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veinsofink/pseuds/veinsofink
Summary: Prompt: You broke into my apartment drunk thinking it was your friend’s house and I should call the cops but my cat kinda likes you so we’re good AU (Reposted)





	Stranger Danger

**Author's Note:**

> Hello hello! This AU was originally brought to you by a screenshot of a tumblr post by tokiosunset, brought to you once again a year after the original post date as a standalone one-shot (instead of a multi-chapter collection), for no other reason than I felt like reorganizing my stuff. So please enjoy!

She should call the cops.

Really, there’s nothing okay about this development that is currently sprawled across her couch at seven-thirty on a Sunday morning. 

But… he’s kind of harmless, one gangly arm hanging off one side, face smushed into a throw pillow and a bit of drool forming at the corner of his gaping mouth, and every now and then she hears a faint snore. He has messy, dark hair that hangs in front of his tightly shut eyes, and his ears are comically large. But he doesn’t _look_ threatening.

There’s also the fact that Pepita is curled up on the stranger’s back, purring contentedly and staring unblinkingly at her. Her gaze is almost a dare, an invitation to _try_ and kick this weird guy out of her apartment, preferably in handcuffs. 

If she’s being honest, that’s what decides it for Imelda. Pepita doesn’t like strangers, especially men. She doesn’t even like Oscar and Felipe, and she’s known them for years (though that might have something to do with their stupid experiments and knack for setting things aflame). If she’s content, then there must be something okay about this guy.

Imelda leans closer, poking the man’s cheek. His face twitches and he groans, turning his face further into the pillow, but he does not wake. After a moment he exhales deeply, and she gags at the stench of alcohol on his breath. She isn’t sure how he’d managed to break into her apartment without waking her, and if his morning breath is any indication, he’d managed to do it while drunk off his ass. She doesn’t know if it’s really impressive or if she should think about investing in a couple extra locks on her door. (Both, she decides after a second’s thought.)

He’s not really hurting anything. Sure, there’s dirt on his boots and he’s got one foot on the armrest of the couch, but it will wash off. He’s probably more of a danger to himself than to her. What was he trying to do, drown himself in liquor?

Imelda looks to her cat, still perched on the unconscious man’s back. “If he tries anything,” she tells Pepita, “you have my express permission to gouge his eyes out.”

Pepita gives an answering purr.

She’s probably crazy, but she leaves the man under her cat’s watchful eyes and goes to the kitchen to start the coffee pot. She makes double her usual amount, and as an afterthought, makes it extra strong. 

The next two hours or so pass uneventfully. She sits at the dining table with her sketchpad open and focuses hard on a new shoe design. She just needs a couple more to add to her portfolio, and then maybe Ceci will have enough to pitch the designs to her boss. She feels good about it. If all goes well, this time next year she could have her own business running, perhaps with enough money to open a shop. She could learn to make the shoes herself, give them a special touch instead of sending them off to be made who knows where. 

She swipes off some eraser shavings and eyes the drawing critically. She flexes her hand to ease the cramps and chances a look at her uninvited guest. Pepita has moved from his back to the armrest above his head, but he has hardly moved. She’s beginning to wonder if he up and died in her living room when she has been sitting _right there. _Just as she’s decided to make sure he’s still breathing, he moves.

She watches him as he turns over to his back and stretches. She swears she can hear his spine pop from across the room. Pepita leans over him, purring loudly, and his face wrinkles. “Huh,” he rasps, eyes still closed against the light coming from the window. His words are still somewhat slurred. “When did ‘Nesto get a cat? _Hola, gatito_.”

Imelda takes her mug in her hands; her coffee has long since gone cold, but it’s comforting to have something to hold. Suddenly she wishes she had kicked the man out when she found him earlier.

He seems to be having a pep talk with himself, his head nodding a little bit before he slowly cracks one eye open. He makes a pained sound, but persists through what must be a hell of a headache, and then opens the other eye. Imelda feels like she’s watching an Olympic sport play out before her.

The stranger gazes at the ceiling for several beats. His brows scrunch together, and he looks at the couch he’s lying on, the cat above his head, the low table to his right. There’s a note of terror in his voice when he says, “This isn’t Ernesto’s place.”

Imelda can’t help the snort that escapes her throat. The man looks up and sees her for the first time, and his eyes widen in fear. “No,” she informs him. Ernesto– wasn’t that her neighbor’s name? “I think you meant to break into that guy’s apartment.” She nods to the wall behind her, adjacent to her neighbor’s living area.

“_Dios mio,_ I’m _so_ sorry!” he exclaims, shooting upright and immediately groaning in pain. He digs the heels of his hands into his eyes, and Imelda feels a twinge of sympathy for him. It’s been a long time since she got drunk enough to warrant a hangover, but she remembers the feeling well enough.

She rises from the table and heads into the kitchen, getting a clean mug out from the cabinet and filling it with what’s left of the coffee. It’s been sitting on the warmer so long it’s probably gone stale, but it’ll do the job. She tells herself that she’s only bringing him coffee to cure his hangover, and the sooner that’s done, the sooner he’ll be gone. She’s not _domestic_.

Imelda walks back into the living room and stands before him. Unsure what to say, she waits a moment before she grabs his wrist and pulls it away from his face, transferring the mug to his hand without preamble. He blinks a couple times, gaze unfocused. “Uh… thanks. And sorry. Again. You know, for… all this.”

She hums and goes back to the table, taking up her pencil again. But there’s nothing left to draw. “Pepita didn’t attack you on sight, so I guess you’re all right.” He casts a glance to the cat and smiles nervously at her. Imelda hesitates. “How _did_ you get in, anyway?”

“Ay, well…” He takes a gulp of the coffee and gags at the bitterness, but continues drinking it anyway. He seems to gain a bit of life with each sip. “I… may have gotten good at picking locks in the past.”

“_You picked my lock?!”_

“How else was I going to get in without a key? Aside from kicking the door in, that is.” He looks at her and a smirk pulls at his mouth. “I’m not a criminal, I swear. I used to get locked out a lot as a teenager when I missed curfew. I only slept on the porch twice before I learned how to get myself inside.”

“I bet your mother is proud of you.”

“She is, actually!” He grins, and she hates that she thinks he’s kind of cute. 

She presses her mouth closed against the smile that forms in response. She should be annoyed, angry even, but this man– what even is his name?– is such a damn charmer. He could probably talk a salesman into giving _him_ money.

“You must have been pretty wasted if you didn’t notice you were in the wrong place last night,” she remarks, looking to her design again. She erases a stray mark.

“I wasn’t _that_ drunk. I only did eight shots.”

She shoots him a horrified look. “_Eight_?”

“More or less.”

She tries not to watch as he downs the rest of his coffee and walks into the kitchen, completely at home in someone else’s apartment. She hears water running as he washes out his mug, and then he’s back standing in front of her. He still looks rather worse for the wear– she notices his eyes are a little bloodshot, and he could stand to shave– but definitely looks better than he did when he first woke up less than twenty minutes ago.

“Anyway, I guess I should leave,” he says as he rubs the back of his neck. “Thanks for not calling the cops on me. And for the coffee. And sorry, again.” He laughs nervously.

He apologizes too much. But he’s sweet. 

She walks him to the door and he’s just crossed the threshold when she blurts, “Tell your friend that if he’s going to keep singing in the shower, he could at least sing some good songs.”

He looks back at her with a furrowed brow. “What’s he been singing?

She crosses her arms. “Just some wordless humming, but he’s _loud,_ you know? Sometimes he adds some lines like…” She thinks back to the one she heard yesterday. “_The moonlight in your hair is like molten silver._ Or something like that.”

He winces. “I told him to try writing his own songs, but I guess its not his forte.”

“He should consider a different calling.”

“He’s a good performer, but songwriting? Not so much. I think I’ll have to be in charge of that one.” He tries to look perturbed, but it doesn’t convince her.

“You’re a musician too?” she asks.

“Yeah. Ernesto and I play together.” He shoves his hands in his pockets and gives her a shy smile. “You know, we actually perform every Friday night at the cantina down the street. You should come sometime. If you want, of course, I mean–”

She should say no. She doesn’t know him. She doesn’t necessarily like his friend. Just say no, it’s on the tip of her tongue–

“Okay,” she says instead.

He beams at her. “Great. That’s great!”

She lets herself smile, and he walks backward a couple steps. He gives her an awkward wave, which she returns, and then he’s turning away and she’s closing the door. She has just turned to go back to her work when there’s a rapid knock on the door. Confused, she turns back and wrenches it open. The stranger is there again, an odd light in his eye.

“Can I help you?” she asks when he just stares at her.

Seeming to come back to his senses, he sticks a hand out. “I’m Héctor, by the way.”

She looks at it briefly, and then does the polite thing and shakes his hand. It’s warm and his fingers are rough with callouses. “Imelda.”

He grins. “Lovely to meet you, Imelda.” He sounds like he’s savoring her name and the way it rolls off his tongue. He holds onto her hand for a second longer than strictly necessary, and she can’t really say that she’s uncomfortable with it. “I’ll see you around, _sí_?”

If her heart flutters right then, well, it’s no one’s business but her own.

“See you around,” she repeats. Héctor wears a satisfied smile as he releases her hand and walks away, whistling a jaunty tune as if he didn’t just ruin her life. 

And if she grins like a complete idiot behind her closed door, then no one but Pepita sees, and really, what’s the harm?

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
